The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [74]
His intelligence told him that if he did not apply his mind to the problem of the robberies he would not solve them, and that would do nothing but add to his troubles. Nevertheless his imagination wandered, and completely uncharacteristically, as soon as the hour came when he could excuse himself from duty for the day, he did so. Without waiting for a word from anyone, he left Bow Street and started making serious enquiries as to the habits of Remus: where he lived, where he ate, which public houses he frequented and to whom he sold the majority of his stories. That pattern had changed over the last year or so, there being a steady increase in the number sold to Thorold Dismore, until over the months of May and June it had been almost exclusively so.
It took him until nearly midnight, after the public houses closed, before he had sufficient information to feel he could find Remus when he wanted him. He would lie to his immediate superior in the morning, a thing he had never done before. There was no evasion that would cover the situation, or his driving need to follow this far more urgent mystery. He would have to find an excuse later, if he were caught.
He slept badly, even though his bed was comfortable enough. He woke early, partly because his mind was teeming with ideas about all manner of personal vices or secrets that Adinett might have found in Mile End, and over which Martin Fetters had in some way threatened him. Nothing he thought of seemed to match his impression of the small tobacconist’s shop on such an ordinary street.
He had a quick cup of tea in the kitchen and bought a sandwich from the first peddler he passed as he hurried to the corner opposite Remus’s lodgings so he could follow him wherever he might go.
He had nearly two hours to wait, and was angry and miserable by the time Remus finally emerged looking freshly shaved, clean white collar high around his neck, and stiff enough to be uncomfortable. His hair was brushed back, still damp, and his face was sharp and eager as he walked rapidly within a few yards of Tellman, who was standing head down in the arch of a doorway. Remus was obviously intent upon where he was going and all but oblivious to anyone else on the footpath.
Tellman turned and followed him some fifteen yards behind, but prepared to move closer if the streets should become more crowded and he was faced with the prospect of losing him.
Half a mile later he had to sprint and only just caught the same omnibus, where he collapsed in a seat next to a fat man in a striped coat who looked at him with amusement. Tellman gasped for breath and cursed his overcaution. Never once had Remus glanced behind him. His mind was apparently absorbed in his purpose, whatever it was.
Tellman was perfectly aware it might have nothing whatsoever to do with Pitt’s case. He could have concluded that story already and have found anything, or nothing. But Tellman had scanned the newspapers every morning for articles to do with Adinett, or Martin Fetters, or even a byline for Remus, and found nothing. The front pages were all filled with the horror of the Lambeth poisonings. Seemingly there were seven young prostitutes dead already. Either the Cleveland Street story had been eclipsed by this latest atrocity, or else Remus was still pursuing it … apparently towards St. Pancras.
Remus got off the bus and Tellman followed him, taking care not to get too close, but still Remus did not look behind him. It was now mid-morning; the streets were busy and becoming choked with traffic.
Remus crossed the street, tipped the urchin sweeping the dung away, and increased his speed on the far side. A moment later he went up the steps of the St. Pancras Infirmary.
A second hospital! Tellman still had no idea why Remus had gone to Guy’s, on the other side of the river.
He ran up behind him, glad he had brought a dark-colored cloth cap which he could pull forward to shade his face. Again,